


Speak My Language

by Natteravn



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Emotional Sex, Enemies to Lovers, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 14:18:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13572342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natteravn/pseuds/Natteravn
Summary: Marc may be angry with himself for a goalkeeping mistake, but seeing Bernd puts things into perspective. He knows that there’s nothing he can say that won’t make matters worse, but words aren’t the only way of communicating.





	Speak My Language

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Khalehla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khalehla/gifts).



> Set during the next international break in late March. Some football details are artistic freedom, because Leverkusen aren’t doing _this_ bad at the moment.
> 
> When Khalehla reblogged one of the many posts on tumblr about fandom friends writing porn for each other about a week ago, I was suddenly inspired to write her some Steno. I asked if she had any preferences, and this is the result. She was also so kind as to beta read the whole thing!
> 
> \---
> 
> I’m on [tumblr](https://tyskerunge.tumblr.com) if you want to get in touch with me outside of AO3.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** Nothing written in my fanfictions is real – I have made absolutely everything up. These persons belong exclusively to themselves, and when I write about them, I see them as _characters based on the real persons_ , not the actual alive and breathing people. I make no profit from my writing, and I do not mean to offend or harass anyone with my works.

It’s been such a rough couple of months that Bernd’s genuinely surprised when he gets called up to the national team in March. An endless row of losses and miraculous draws, crowned by a loss against _Werder Bremen_ in the cup, should not only be enough to kick him out of Germany’s finest, but have him benched in Leverkusen. He’s all too aware of just how many times he’s failed the team since the Christmas break.

One or two goals have been unlucky, but most have been standard balls he’s supposed to catch, along with some very poor decisions on his part. ‘Stop trying to be Manuel Neuer when you don’t have the quality’ seems to be the general opinion of the sports journalists, and when they have nothing but praise for Sven Ulreich’s performance in Munich, it’s a wonder Löw and Köpke still went for him. He supposes that the only thing saving his ass is habit. They’re so used to working with him and they know what they’re going to get, so they don’t bother taking the risk with someone untested. And Ulreich can’t risk having his flow interrupted, or whatever.

The driver announces that they’re there. With his headphones on, Bernd normally wouldn’t hear it, but today they’re just for show. For protection. He slips them off and leaves them hanging around his neck, then he follows Julian Brandt out of the car. He stays silent as they’re handed their luggage and approach the main entrance of the luxury hotel, only putting on a brief smile for the press as the glass doors slide open.

The lobby’s crowded. The Bayern and Dortmund players are already there, and Bernd can spot one or two from England. Someone mentions that the flight from Paris has been delayed. Apparently the flight from Barcelona was on time, but only just landed. The Italians should arrive any moment now, as should the Schalkers.

Bernd decides to ignore them. He’s tempted to put his headphones back on, but decides against it. There’s something uncomfortable about being separated from the world when important information could be given at any moment. If the flight from Paris is very delayed, Löw might get started before Draxler and Trapp are there.

Dropping his bag to the floor and leaning back against a pole, Bernd lets out a deep sigh and tries to block out the buzzing voices. The endless waiting that goes with the job has helped him perfect the art of patience, even when the others around him are getting restless. Sometimes it pays off being a goalkeeper.

In most cases, he doesn’t even know how much time has passed when a voice oozing with authority speaks up, and this time is no different. He straightens up and turns his head in the direction of Löw’s voice.

He hears the words, but doesn’t pay attention. International duty always follows a certain pattern – breakfast at this time, dinner at that time, training and recovery balanced appropriately. The first day’s training is usually in the afternoon, giving them enough time to arrive, settle in, catch up.

Only when he hears the mention of ‘rooms’ does Bernd listen up, hoping that he’ll get a roommate who’ll leave him be – if not for the whole stay, then at least for the next few hours, so that he’ll have time to get over his bad mood before the training unit.

Singles this time, he hears Löw say, and breathes out in relief. Even better.

~*~

Conceding a goal is one thing. Conceding not only one, but _two_ goals in the very final minutes of a match you’ve been dominating since the very first minute, is something else entirely. Not having found the net yourselves and conceding the second goal because of a horrible goalkeeping mistake, is bordering a disaster. Add the fact that it’s the first loss of the season, after a near perfect streak, and the humiliation is complete.

Marc was angry when he went to bed yesterday, he was angry when he woke up this morning, he was angry during the entire flight and now, entering the hotel they’re staying at, he’s _still_ angry. With himself, with the referees, with the pitch, with the weather conditions, with that damn unremarkable away team which is always stuck somewhere at the lower half of the table.

Here he’s in a dream position, in a perfect place to get some playtime because a certain Manuel Neuer is still injured, and he has to go ahead and fuck it all up the _day_ before the international break. Worst way to start off, especially considering all the praise Kevin Trapp has received in Paris lately.

He’s usually all smiles and handshakes and bro hugs when he’s reunited with the national team, but today, he can’t even bring himself to smile for the cameras. The greetings from the teammates are just brushed off with a curt nod in acknowledgement. He knows he’s going to feel bad about that later, but right now, he’s too angry to care, intensified by the fact that outfield players can’t fully understand a goalkeeper’s pain after a rough loss.

But, despite not wanting any contact with any of the others, his eyes automatically seek out and fall on Bernd. Bernd, leaning heavily against a pole and blocking out the world in the way Marc’s noticed him do a couple of times, looking lost and alone in the otherwise so cheerful crowd.

And despite Marc’s pain and frustration with yesterday’s match, he feels a pang of guilt and sympathy as he takes in his goalkeeper colleague. Everything put into perspective, he doesn’t have anything to complain about. They’re still at the top of the table, way ahead of the other teams. The loss this weekend was their first of the season. His place in the club is not threatened, the chances of not getting called up to the national team are low, even with a few poor decisions in the heat of the moment.

Even if Marc doesn’t feel that the players surrounding them understand him, his situation’s absolutely nothing compared to Bernd’s.

Marc wants to walk over to him, if not to exchange as much as a look, then at least stand next to him in silent solidarity. Unfortunately – or luckily; a goalkeeper in pain can be very unpredictable – Löw speaks up before he can get that far.

Damn it. He has to hope for a nice roommate, then. Or better yet, singles. As they end up getting. He breathes out in relief and makes sure to catch Bernd’s room number.

~*~

There’s a knock on Bernd’s door, shortly after he’s finished unpacking, but before he’s really been able to unwind. He gets up from the bed and shuffles over to the entrance, not really in the mood to see anyone right now and ready to send them away. He’s not entirely naïve, though. The list of potential visitors isn’t exactly long, and the list of _likely_ visitors is even shorter. In fact, there’s only one person he can think of.

He doesn’t say anything when he opens the door, and neither does Marc. Standing by the door with his lips pressed together, eyebrows curving upwards and meeting in a wrinkle in the middle, Bernd knows that the other goalkeeper is asking to come in. When Marc cocks his head slightly downwards and to the side, Bernd closes his eyes for a brief moment, then he lowers his shoulders, letting the relaxation in his body speak for itself. As he leans back against the wall, eyes cast towards the ceiling, he feels more than hears that Marc enters the room, at least until the door falls shut.

And then they’re standing opposite each other in the narrow space, only just fitting without overstepping any boundaries. Bernd feels Marc’s gaze linger on him with a mix of sympathy and vulnerability, making him shift uncomfortably and pointedly avoid eye contact. It’s nice that someone is able to comprehend the painful side of being a goalkeeper, but he doesn’t want Marc’s pity, or to “talk about it”, or receive some kind of encouraging speech. Marc plays for _FC Barcelona_ , there are no words he can say that will improve the situation or change the mood that Bernd’s currently stuck in.

But Marc doesn’t say anything, and eventually Bernd runs out of patience. If Marc’s only here to stare, he might as well go back to his own room and do a google search, because Bernd isn’t in the mood for anything but sulk on his own. In fact, Bernd’s fairly sure that once one of them opens his mouth or reaches out, regardless of the intention, his mood is going to drop by several notches. He’s already so far down that he can’t let that happen. 

Better get it over with, then.

He breathes in sharply and meets Marc’s eyes. At this point, it doesn’t matter that using surnames is an unspoken rule of theirs – saying _ter Stegen_ always makes Bernd feel more aggressive than necessary, and that’s the last thing he needs right now. His lips meet in a silent _M_ , then he parts them to speak out the rest of the name.

The _a_ dies in his throat when Marc leans in and presses a finger to his mouth.

Bernd raises his eyebrows in surprise, eyes crossing automatically towards their point of contact. With a tiny, slow shake of his head, Marc eases the pressure a little, and as their eyes meet again, Marc’s look less sore and more gentle, almost on the border of hopeful, intense in a warm, non-hungry way. Bernd swallows thickly. He can’t recall ever having had Marc look at him like that.

His lips feel hot where Marc’s finger lingers, his cheeks are blushing under Marc’s gaze, his heart’s beating faster at the near-contact, and yet it doesn’t feel like desire. He presses the palms of his hands against the wall, steadying himself, shoulders raising in anticipation. Whatever this is, at least it doesn’t make him feel worse than he already does, like he feared any kind of action might, and anything that doesn’t worsen his mood is welcome right now.

Marc raises his gaze, a slight frown passing quickly over his features, and Bernd remembers that he didn’t bother styling his hair after the shower this morning. Marc must come to the same conclusion, because his confusion fades, and his finger slips from Bernd’s mouth as he reaches out to run his hand through Bernd’s soft, slightly curly hair. He’s let it grow for a while now, which gives Marc more to work through, and Bernd has to fight the urge to lean into the touch. That he does so by taking a deep breath and closing his eyes must still give him away though, because soon after, he hears Marc exhale, and then his other hand finds Bernd’s hair as well.

Bernd presses his lips together not to purr like a kitten.

Marc shifts a little closer, his fingers running deeper and deeper into Bernd’s hair until he’s massaging his scalp. Bernd lets out the breath he’s been holding, feeling the tension leave his body as he gives in, lowering his shoulders and leaning into Marc’s gentle touches. If it feels this good and helps his body relax for the first time in weeks, he can’t think of a reason to fight it.

Marc’s hands start moving, reaching for the locks further at the back, running back along his shaved sides to his temples, and carefully down to his ears. Bernd half expects to feel lips against his own when Marc gently touches them, because that’s what _he_ always does when he grabs _Marc’s_ ears, frowning in confusion when the sensation doesn’t appear. He tenses again as Marc starts massaging the upper curves of his ears between his fingers, thumbs applying just the right amount of pressure, because touches like these simply aren’t exchanged between them, and they barely exchange any at all that aren’t somehow sexually motivated.

He feels Marc’s breath against his lips then, but when the anticipated kiss still doesn’t come, Bernd’s eyes fly open. Marc’s close, so close, his eyes fixed on Bernd’s, but still so gentle and warm that Bernd’s breath catches in his throat. A brief, barely-there hint of a smile passes across Marc’s features and Bernd presses his lips together, tries to keep it in, but another brush of fingers through his hair does it for him. He lets out a sob of relief as the strain leaves his body, feeling as though he’s collapsing against Marc’s body even though he isn’t, and Marc’s holding him up only by touching his hair and ears.

Marc’s gaze turns sympathetic, but only when Bernd feels Marc’s hands cupping his cheeks, thumbs brushing gently against his lower eyelids, does he realise that he has tears in his eyes. In any other situation he’d rather die than let Marc see him like this, but with the way Marc’s touching and looking at him right now, it feels strangely safe. He’ll probably deny that he felt this way later, but right in this moment, it makes his heart swell in his chest.

Marc’s eyes drop down to his lips then, lingering for a moment. His head dips slightly, his eyes meeting Bernd’s as he does so, silently asking for permission. Bernd gives him a tiny nod in response, it doesn’t even feel like he’s moved his head, but he must have, because Marc caresses his cheekbones with his thumbs, then he leans in.

Bernd’s eyes close on their own accord this time, and just as his vision goes dark, he feels Marc’s lips brushing his own. For a moment, they’re just resting there, but when Bernd starts pursing his lips ever so slightly, Marc follows along until their lips are connected in a proper kiss.

Has a kiss they’ve shared ever felt even remotely calm and innocent? If so, they’ve both been mistaken, because this, this is how such a kiss is supposed to feel. Bernd has nothing to compare it to, but he doesn’t have to. He feels warm all over, cheeks starting to flush where Marc’s hands are still cupping them, lips buzzing at the soft touch – a pleasant, welcoming change to what their kisses and touches usually are. Rarely has a kiss not held the connotation of sexual desire, and gentleness and non-sexual caresses are certainly not things they’ve given much attention.

Since Marc’s the one to initiate the contact, Bernd figures he should just follow his lead. When he pulls away, Bernd doesn’t follow, but responds positively when Marc nudges the tip of his nose against Bernd’s own. Their lips brush each other in a blink of an eye, and when their eyes meet this time, Marc’s granted permission without having to ask. Bernd even meets him halfway.

Hands find their way back into Bernd’s hair, and he sighs in pleasure as Marc’s long, talented fingers continue to massage his scalp. Spurred on by Marc’s unexpected ability to put so much into simple touches, Bernd moves his hands off of the wall and puts one on Marc’s side – not pulling him closer or grabbing him, just resting his hand there, awaiting Marc’s reaction. He’s rewarded with a soft sigh against his mouth, and does the same with the other hand, resting instead of holding. When Marc still doesn’t protest, he starts gently rubbing his thumbs in small circles, causing Marc to smile into the kiss. Bernd does the same, strangely pleased with himself for having done something right.

He can’t even tell how long they stand there in the narrow space, kissing and touching in completely innocent ways. He moves his hands to Marc’s ears at one point, proud to show him that he can touch them without turning the kiss violently heated. Marc’s hair is not nearly as long as his own at the moment, but Marc still approves with a low hum when Bernd touches the short strands.

It’s so gentle and intimate that Bernd can’t really tell when the mood changes, because it doesn’t. The need to be closer just increases naturally, their minds setting the pace instead of their bodies. They’re still in the entryway when Bernd loses his t-shirt because he’s too warm, and Marc loses his hoodie because Bernd wants to feel skin under his palms. They move further into the room when Bernd starts finding it uncomfortable to feel the wall against his bare skin, and land on the bed because it’s the only alternative.

But even then, though Bernd can feel that they’re both hard when Marc crawls on top of him and settles nicely between his legs, their focus remains above the waistline. Bernd’s really getting the hang of it now, touching Marc in all the places he’s never paid much attention to in the past – his sides, his forearms, his ribs, the crook of his elbows, between and below his shoulder blades – not clawing or scratching like he’s used to doing, but taking his time, running his fingertips along both smooth and rough skin alike, adding a soft pressure whenever he feels like it. Marc is doing the same, keeping the same pace, and Bernd finds that yes, it does make a difference how you touch someone. And even something as boring as the side of his chest or his sternum can give him goosebumps from head to toe when touched in the right way with the right pressure.

And they do it all without breaking their kiss.

When they eventually lose their trousers, it’s because they’re running out of new places to touch. Bernd is suddenly feeling the need to touch all of Marc, every single centimetre of his body to make sure he’s discovered every single soft spot, especially the ones Marc doesn’t know about yet. Marc seems to have the same idea, because the first thing he does once they’re back on the bed, is stand up on his knees and motioning for Bernd to do the same. Kissing is not the easiest when they’re both trying to touch each other’s thighs, but Bernd presses his mouth to Marc’s shoulder instead, trying to compensate.

After a few clumsy, awkward attempts to make it work, though, Bernd gives up. They need to have some areas left for another time. When he tries to communicate just that through sign language, however, Marc – even though he’s trying his best – just shakes his head with an amused smile, raising both hands in defeat. Bernd is so close to just tell him and he would have, if only it didn’t mean breaking the magic of the moment. Sensing Bernd’s frustration at not being able to communicate _exactly_ what he means, Marc just reaches for him again, kisses him, and brings them down on the bed so that they’re both lying on their sides.

Again the kissing becomes the main focus, and Bernd presses as close as he can manage, throwing one leg over both of Marc’s to keep him in place.

And still it doesn’t feel hectic, and there’s no desperate need to get off radiating from either of them. Marc is still proceeding calmly, keeping the touches gentle and the kisses soft, like this was the first time they slept together. In some way, maybe it is.

It’s the need to be closer that makes Marc roll them over eventually, settling between Bernd’s legs again. And when he reaches for the waistband of Bernd’s boxers, running rough fingertips along the line where the fabric meets the skin, he’s sending Bernd another one of those looks that makes Bernd’s insides do somersaults, once again asking for permission without opening his mouth.

Bernd reaches behind Marc’s neck, caressing his nape before pulling him down for a soft kiss, nodding into it.

Marc sits up on his knees, letting his warm hands run from the waistband of Bernd’s boxers to his ankles in the process, without breaking the eye contact. Bernd swallows as he shudders under that look, feeling his whole body starting to flush from being watched so intensely, no trace of aggressiveness or anger or pain or hurt in Marc’s features. Never had he thought that looks alone could make such a difference.

As if seeing Bernd’s wheels turning, Marc sends him a reassuring smile and runs his hands the same route back to Bernd’s hipbones, taking hold of his underwear and starting to pull it off. Bernd breaks the eye contact for a brief moment as he raises his hips, allowing Marc to get rid of the boxers completely. He hears a soft sound as they land on the floor, and looks up at Marc again, expecting his eyes to be directed at his groin this time.

That’s how it’s always been. They can focus on each other while they’re dressed and even semi-dressed, but particularly when the last piece of clothing comes off, the attention is directed at the most physical proof of their arousal. As if making each other come is the point, the purpose, the essence of why they’re sleeping together.

Not this time, though.

Marc’s looking right back at Bernd, his eyes still soft and warm. Pupils blown wider than usual, yes, but his focus can’t be mistaken. Bernd shivers; nothing has ever made him feel more naked. Overwhelmed by the care and attention, emphasised by the amount of eye contact they’re able to maintain without making it awkward or feeling an intense need to look away, he reaches for Marc and pulls him back down, pressing his thighs into Marc’s hips to keep him in place. Marc gives him another one of those soft, sweet kisses and Bernd fumbles for Marc’s underwear, trying to get it off, which is made significantly harder by the position they’re in. Marc chuckles against Bernd’s lips and pulls away to take care of the problem himself, eyes locked with Bernd’s as he does it.

This time, Bernd doesn’t even register where the boxers land before he’s reaching for Marc and pulling him back on top, for good this time.

The feeling of their stark naked bodies pressed together is nothing against the look on Marc’s face when it happens. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and even Bernd can feel the shiver that runs through the other goalie’s body. He wraps his legs around Marc’s hips again, pressing him closer, and reaches for his face, cupping his cheeks and pulling him in for a kiss.

Having the kisses to focus on calms them both down a bit and Bernd allows himself a moment to appreciate the state they’re in. Yes, he’s hard; yes, he’s turned on; but it doesn’t feel nearly as important as focusing on Marc and the emotional closeness between them, one he’s never felt between them before.

Because they’ve never taken their time.

Using one arm to hold himself up, Marc’s free to curl his other hand into Bernd’s hair and gently play with it, and Bernd lets one hand wander back to Marc’s nape, massaging him with smooth circles of his thumb. Ever so slowly, Marc starts to move his hips, rubbing tentatively against Bernd once, twice, before breaking the kiss to look down at him. A low chuckle escapes Bernd’s lips and he nods rapidly, pulling Marc down again. As if _that_ was something he needed permission for.

Still, it’s very considerate of him to care. And to ask, even though talking is out of the picture. When Marc’s hand starts massaging his scalp again, Bernd does purr like a kitten, pausing the kiss to rub his nose against Marc’s. Marc lets out a content sigh and responds, bumping his nose against Bernd’s until Bernd can’t hold back his laughter. A press of lips to his nose follows, then Marc goes back to kissing his mouth, and starts moving properly.

Bernd’s breath catches in his throat at first, taken aback by the rapid swift from innocent kitten’s play to another type of play entirely. And not nearly as innocent, although this moment right here, right now, feels a lot more innocent than all the times they’ve ever been with each other in the past. Closer, more caring, more intimate. His heart skips a beat and he swallows a whimper.

Marc gradually speeds up his movements, grabbing Bernd’s thigh to keep him in place, pressing him harder against his hip. Bernd sighs heavily into his mouth and tightens the grip of his legs, grinding back as the pace increases and they start sliding more smoothly against each other thanks to the precome.

Marc suddenly groans and bites down on Bernd’s lip, and Bernd shudders. As much as he’s enjoying this sweet, calm, lovely side of sexual intimacy, the rougher is what he knows, what he understands, what he’s sure to get off on. He reaches around them to grab Marc’s backside with both hands, urging him on, pressing him even closer with each thrust. Marc growls and bites Bernd again, then he buries his face in the crook of Bernd’s neck, focus now having shifted to finishing them off. Heavy breath and the hint of tongue against his throat send sparks through Bernd’s body and he moans out loud, grabbing Marc harder.

Warmth and tenderness are nice, satisfying a need in Bernd that he didn’t know he felt, but they’re not enough for him to come, he realises as the fire finally starts to build up low in his abdomen.

Thankfully, Marc’s efficient whenever Bernd needs him to be, and shortly after, when Bernd’s clawing at his skin and his breathing has gone out of control, Marc pushes himself up on his arms. He forces his groin down, and when he bends down to give Bernd the sweetest, most innocent of kisses, Bernd can’t take it anymore.

He grabs Marc’s cheeks and holds his face in place, their lips a hair’s breadth apart, breath going so fast he’s almost hyperventilating as the oh so welcome and familiar pleasure pulses through his body.

“Marc,” he breathes, and it doesn’t matter that he’s never said it out loud. “Marc, Marc, _Marc_ …”

For a fraction of a second, he catches a glimpse of Marc’s eyes, then Marc squeezes them shut, sucks his lip into his mouth, tenses – and lets out a deep groan, pressing his forehead to Bernd’s collar bone. Something seems to explode in Bernd’s chest, despite the fact that he’s already done, and he curls his fingers into the short strands of Marc’s hair, holding on as the rush leaves his body and exhaustion starts to take over.

Bernd can’t tell how long they lie like that, all tangled up together, his own hands in Marc’s hair and Marc sprawled all over him, breathing heavily against his chest and tracing his fingers slowly along the sides of his ribs. He’d never thought it’d feel so good to still be touching after they’ve come. With a content sigh, he allows himself to doze off, feeling safe and protected in Marc’s arms.

He only seems to come back to his senses when he feels the soft press of lips to his collar bone. Slowly, they move from one to the other and then downwards, until soft kitten kisses are covering his whole chest. Butterflies flutter in his stomach when Marc pushes himself up again, covers Bernd’s lips in a lingering, calm kiss before rolling off, landing on his side next to Bernd and staying there. Once again, he reaches out to play with Bernd’s hair, and Bernd purrs in delight as he too turns over on his side, facing Marc.

There’s a spark in Marc’s eyes that he doesn’t recognise, and Bernd can’t help but wonder if this is the first time it’s there, or if he just hasn’t paid enough attention in the past. The amount of contact they share after a round in the sheets is usually limited to cleaning each other off, and that’s on a good day.

But today was different, Bernd reminds himself as he sees a small smile pass across Marc’s features, wondering if he too is sporting a look that Marc’s seeing for the first time.

Almost afraid of breaking the spell, this pure, magic moment, he opens his mouth, voice barely louder than a breath.

“I’m sorry I broke the rule.”

Marc’s whole face smiles and he moves his hand down to trace a finger along Bernd’s furrowed brow.

“What rule?” His voice is equally soft.

“The ‘no talking’ rule.”

Marc smiles again, ducking his head with a barely noticeable shake. Then he leans over to press a brief kiss to Bernd’s lips; not lingering long enough for Bernd to respond, but also not pulling away by more than an inch, leaving plenty of room for Bernd to chase after and claim that mouth in a proper kiss. One of Marc’s hands falls to his hip and he automatically shifts closer, snuggling up to Marc and tangling their feet together.

The calm, comfortable atmosphere still lingers in the room, the silence only broken by the soft sound of their lips meeting and skin brushing against skin. Bernd can’t even tell what does it, but somehow, for some reason, it just feels so incredibly _right_ to be cuddling with Marc like this, right after they’ve come together. He’s never even thought of this as an option, but now…

Marc pulls away reluctantly to rub their noses together again, then he whispers, tangling one hand back into Bernd’s hair, “Happy belated birthday, Bernd.”

And it’s so much more than just a simple birthday wish, Bernd thinks as his heart skips a beat and he presses his lips desperately against Marc’s, letting out a yearning sigh, digging his fingers into the skin of Marc’s hip.

It’s the first time he hears Marc speak his given name too.


End file.
